Coroner's Journal (18 page)

Mire went home to the trailer park, got his shotgun, hid in a van, and waited. When Borskey and his girlfriend arrived, Mire stepped out of the van with the weapon. Borskey never saw it coming. That's it. That's the whole story.

Having been raised in north Louisiana, which is redneck country, I had heard that some folks could be a little touchy when it came to their dog, but this was ridiculous.

Mire—dog lover and now “cold-blooded murderer”—surrendered without a battle and was taken into custody. One dead and one going to jail for a long, long time—all because of an insult to a dog.

I imagine alcohol played a major role in this homicide. It does in a lot of them. In the end, all of the death and suffering caused on this night was for naught. I wondered if Mire would try to spin his actions as “justifiable homicide” when he woke up in the morning.

The motive in this case is almost incomprehensible to me. The trivial things that people kill over are astounding. I do not understand it. I did have a moment of clarity the next evening when my eleven-year-old son was sitting with us as we watched the TV news coverage of Borskey, Mire, and the dog. Michael looked at me and said: “That's just plain dumb!”

“Out of the mouths of babes . . .” I muttered.

His attorney argued, albeit unsuccessfully, that Mire should be acquitted because he was “insane” at the time of the murder. Mire would have plenty of time to contemplate the whole insane affair. He was found guilty of second-degree murder. That's a mandatory life sentence.

So what happened to the dog? The chaos must have confused the poor animal. Following Mire's arrest, his dog ran out on Plank Road as Mire was being led across the highway and was run over and killed.

That crime scenes are typically rich in banter should come as no surprise. One of the more common ones in the coroner's armamentarium is: “If you die stupid, we're going to laugh at you!” Another in the Top Ten is: “We've already got the paperwork done on you . . . how you feeling?” Then there's: “If I see you tonight, you won't be seeing me.”

Sometimes these shockingly witty quips prove prophetic and may even become legend, in the urban sense. One such quip got its start at the Greater Baton Rouge Gun Show.

Just in case you are not familiar with a Louisiana gun show, I'll take a few lines to describe the phenomenon. The show features about 200 tables staffed by gun dealers. There are all types of firearms for sale to qualified individuals. The tables are arranged in rows, and the attendees wander down the rows in search of deals and treasures. In order to purchase a firearm, you must pass the “instant background check,” the state's threshold to make sure you are not a felon.

I have been around guns all of my life. In my younger years I even explored the possibility of becoming a gunsmith. But my father had other ideas, and that one never came to fruition. I did become a sort of amateur gunsmith, though, and subsequently have become rather knowledgeable about firearms. That's a positive thing, since that knowledge is essential to my profession. Indeed, in addition to my service weapon, I have a collection of various types of guns that hold special interest for me.

In order to appreciate or even understand this story, you will need a little background information. It centers around a particular make of semiautomatic pistol, a gun made by Hi-Point Firearms of Dayton, Ohio.

My first dealing with this particular make of weapon came during our process of cataloguing guns used in suicides. Suicide weapons are held at the coroner's office. As they are not considered murder weapons per se, these guns are the property of the estate of the deceased. But it's rare that family members want them back, and therefore we end up housing a lot of them forever. One of the pistols we cataloged was a 9mm semiautomatic pistol that I will simply call a “Lo End” firearm. It's sort of a “gangsta” Saturday-night special, in my book. But even I will admit that it gets the job done. In attempting to check the chamber of this particular weapon, I noted that the safety was bent, blocking the slide from moving backward. Upon bending it back with a screwdriver and a little pressure, I was able to check the gun. We laughed as we compared the quality of that weapon to our Glocks. We catalogued it, put it in the vault, and gave little thought to it after that.

The “Lo End 9mm” didn't cross my mind again until I went to the semiannual gun show. I was surprised to find several of them offered for sale. The asking price was a little over a hundred dollars. By comparison, what I considered a decent pistol was going for $400 or more at the time. One of the vendors told us that it was a great backup gun, especially if you're a hunter. From then on we referred to it as a “hunting weapon” that every sportsman should have. It became a running joke.

About six months later, I was wandering through another Baton Rouge gun show, checking out the latest guns and hoping to buy ammo for myself at a good price. I was browsing among the two hundred or so gun-dealer tables when I came upon a police officer I knew. He was amusing himself by watching a Lo End 9mm being touted and sold. The gun dealer had a table full of what we consider to be “off-brand” and “cheap” firearms. Some resembled assault weapons. We pretty much know the type of person who is attracted to this type of table, and it is never a true firearm aficionado. The buyer in question, a black male dressed in a rather nice patterned shirt, was listening intently. The shirt is really what caught the officer's eye as it showed various Harley-Davidson motorcycles on a blue background. Both he and I ride Harleys, so the shirt struck us as rather interesting. We stood there and listened as the dealer expounded on the outstanding qualities of the firearm. “Best gun on this table, for the money.” We were amused by the sideshow presentation the dealer had mastered. He reminded me of a barker outside a Bourbon Street strip club. I could hear him doing his spiel in the same voice—“Come on in, buddy. Most beautiful ladies in town . . .”

Ultimately the guy buys the gun. His gold teeth glistened as he smiled over his new acquisition. He looked up, made eye contact with us, and my policeman friend said to him, “Hey, buddy, good gun. I'd put a lot of WD-40 on it and the bullets to make it shoot better.”

The guy thanked him. The next pitch from the dealer was the type of 9mm ammunition worked best in the gun. He just happened to have some there on the table. We went on about our business and laughed about the Lo End being a hunting gun. The officer mumbled something to me about how the point of his WD-40 recommendation was to “gum up the works and maybe save some cop's life out there.”

As we were leaving the show, we ran into the buyer again and said, “See you later, buddy.”

Buddy responded with: “Yeah—cool, man. See you.”

My friend turned to me and finished his thoughts on the matter, “But he
won't
see us, because he's going to get killed out there with his sportsman's Lo End. . . . Nice shirt, though. I like it.”

My response was typical: “You're profiling, but, you may be right.” After all, this guy had been a police officer for many years.

We then discussed the issue of “Saturday-night specials” and the “gangsta” market that such a firearm would appeal to. We also talked about profiling and police work.

His whole demeanor changed when we touched on the topic. I guess he had developed a clear perspective from his police experiences. “If I see a carload of white males riding around in an all-black neighborhood at eleven P.M. and I think they don't belong there and are up to no good, am I profiling? Sure I am. I'm
assessing risk
based on what I know. It's not about racism, it's about actuarial data, just like the insurance companies do to assess risk.” Then he closed with his final point: We both opined that the person buying that type of weapon from that type of dealer is at high risk for shooting someone or getting shot.

I concurred, and encouraged him to lighten up. “Hell, I'm on
your
side.”

At a death scene soon after, we were gathered around a customized two-door Buick. It was about five A.M. and the sky was starting to turn a light blue as it readied for daybreak. The humidity already hung heavily in the air and draped about us. The car was light green. The paint job was immaculate. I guessed it to be a late-1960s model, restored to perfection. The “gangsta” whitewalls and the “spinner” hubcaps reminded me of the old muscle-car days.

It was a nice ride, very clean, except for the blood on the white leather upholstery.

An examination of the crime scene revealed the driver of the Buick had lost control at the intersection, which was about a hundred yards away from the current location of the car. The vehicle had jumped the curb and come to a stop in an empty lot next to a small warehouse. There was no indication that the driver had applied the brakes. The car had rolled to a stop but was still in gear. Evidently the engine died when the Buick bounded over the curb. The driver had a Tootsie Pop in his mouth and a bullet in his heart. He was wearing a rather nice shirt patterned with Harley-Davidson motorcycles on a blue background. My friend recognized him immediately and made a rather concise comment to me on the situation: “Profiling, huh?”

His Lo End pistol was not with him. We surmised that another “sportsman” had taken it. The whole episode seemed surreal.

Coincidence? Educated guess? Who knows? Bottom line is that if you live by the sword, or the 9mm
. . . there's a good chance we'll be seeing you but you won't see us.

 

 

 

Since I come from a clinical background, there are times when I drift into a clinical assessment paradigm. What that translates into is that I focus on the biological or physical aspects of the corpse first and foremost. But, I also try to consider any signs or clues that might give me some indication of the victim's psychology as well as that of the perpetrator. For example, if the victim has track marks, the possibility that he is a drug addict goes to the top of the list. But he could also be a recent plasma or blood donor or even be a dialysis patient. An indication is not a fact. If he has an appointment card for a visit to a mental health clinic, that's a clue. Or multiple “jail house” tattoos might indicate a multiple offender. If he is a blatant homosexual, there is the possibility that this is a hate crime and the perpetrator has a character disorder. If he has the address of a married woman in his wallet, this might be a passion murder. The list of possibilities may seem endless, but it is important to keep an open mind. Then there is the social context. The type of lifestyle of the victim may well point to the type of person who would kill him. The most obvious being a gang war. And we have to consider the spiritual context, especially with serial killers who might be on a “mission from God.” Maybe the killer feels justified if not morally compelled to kill a sexual predator who has exploited his child.

Of course this process of trying to fill in those biological, psychological, sociological, and spiritual blanks can lead to a great deal of speculation with some infusion of my own bias. But, like speculation, this approach can offer some benefit since it does get me thinking in an orderly and comprehensive fashion. I just have to keep in mind how speculative it is. A supposition is definitely not a fact but it can help lead me to a fact. It can be dangerously seductive, too. The danger is that I may try to make the facts fit a “pet” scenario.

Sally Givens is what we'll call her, a single mom raising two kids and struggling to stay afloat financially. It was about four A.M. in the fall of 1999 when she turned her car down a side street off of North Acadian Thruway. She was delivering newspapers before the city awakened. The side street was dark. The streetlight was overgrown with vegetation.

Her headlights revealed a black female lying in the driveway of one of her paper customers. Sally was too street-smart to stop and check it out. She turned the vehicle around immediately and drove straight to the closest police station. EMS was dispatched and arrived in three minutes and fifty-seven seconds. About three hours too late for the victim.

A local who was staggering about that morning informed EMS that he recognized the deceased as a working girl by the name of Tasha. That was all he knew, except that he had seen her in the area earlier, but couldn't remember when. He was quite inebriated. He did stick around to talk to the police, but they got little more from him.

The shrill ring of the cell phone ended my sleep at five A.M. The message awakened me immediately. “Got a black hooker down. Could be our boy is at it again.” “Our boy” referred to a person killing black prostitutes. He was also becoming known as the “non-serial killer,” a title that originated as a sarcastic retort to those who dismissed the string of black prostitute murders as just coincidental.

De, awakened by the call, asked if she could come with me. “Sure, De, you're legal.”
Besides, this may be him and we can always use a woman's touch.

DeAnn, whom I first met in a psychiatric hospital in 1985, is a medicolegal death investigator and a registered psychiatric nurse. She was obviously grateful that I was allowing her to come, and her response was one of understanding and gratitude: “Always a smart-ass! Okay, just for that you're taking me to Frank's for breakfast after this.”

The scene was a typical southern Louisiana morning. The sun was on the rise and the dew was burning off in the form of steam. Mosquitoes were swarming about and the air was heavy with insect repellent. The responders had sprayed themselves liberally with the stuff. I guess they believe in West Nile virus. We followed suit and sprayed ourselves. The usual cast of characters was present: detectives, crime-scene officers, uniformed officers, and gawkers. Amazingly, the press had not arrived yet.